


Kerosene

by Builder



Series: Heroverse [21]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Coughing, Fever, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pneumonia, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Steve Rogers, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-08 14:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15932240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Bucky's the one who does the fussing, not the one who gets fussed over.  But he can't deal with everything alone.





	Kerosene

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prompt from Tumblr. Find me @builder051

Bucky ducks behind the tower of crates at the end of the dock, pressing his hand to his chest as he hacks.  It’s been like this all morning.  The chilly autumn air seems to be sticking in his lungs instead of passing through, thin and refreshing as it should be.  He tastes coffee and phlegm, and he hopes he’s not about to spill his guts all over the knotted planks beneath his feet.  He’s having enough trouble holding himself together without his stomach acting up too.

“Barnes?  The hell’re you doing back there?”  Donoghue’s unmistakable brogue reaches Bucky’s ears a second before the man’s hulking shadow rounds the crates.  

Bucky coughs again and wipes his mouth on the back of his gloved hand.  “Nothing,” he rasps.  “I’m fine.”

“I didn’t ask how you are.  I asked what you’re doing.”

“And I said.”  Bucky swallows the tickle in his throat and hides it behind a grin.  “I ain’t doing nothing.”  He straightens up.  “What’s next on the lineup?  Loading or unloading?”

Donoghue just stares at him.  “You shouldn’t be doing anything but running home.  And not even running.  You’re gonna cough up your lungs, the way you’re going on.”

“I’m fine,” Bucky says, though the need to clear his throat betrays him.  He covers his mouth with his hand, but it does little to muffle the sound.  “My arms and legs still work.”

“If you keel over on the job—”

“I won’t, ok?”  Bucky pushes past the Irishman.  “And just between you and me, I need the cash.  I can’t lose a whole day for a little cough.”

Donoghue sighs and nods.  “Alright,” he says.  “But take the boxes on the end.  They’re lighter than the ones in the middle.”

***

The sun’s low on the horizon when Bucky finishes his shift.  He’s exhausted, though, and winded.  Even though he hasn’t shifted half the weight of cargo he’s used to.  

Bucky wipes sweat from his brow as he winds through the streets back to his building.  He’s cold, practically shivering.  The damp patches on his shirt feel like ice against his skin.  

He pauses in the stairwell, drawing in a breath and trying to pull himself together.  No use frightening Steve with the deep, chesty hacks that keep coming up.  The kid’s been fighting a cold himself, and Bucky knows he’ll capitalize on any excuse to jump out of bed and be the one fussing instead of the one fussed over.

“Hey,” Bucky calls quietly as he unlocks the apartment door.

“Hey.”  Steve turns away from the stove.  “Tea?”

“You read my mind,” Bucky says.  He drops his lunch pail on the counter and gives Steve a kiss on the cheek before going to sit at the table.  “You feeling better?” he asks.

Steve nods.  “Yeah.”  He pours water into two mugs.  “I cleaned a bit.  Worked on some sketches.”  He looks over his shoulder at Bucky.  “I rested too, don’t worry.”

Steve’s answered the next question before Bucky’s even thought to ask.  His brain feels sluggish, his limbs heavy.  Bucky rests his elbows on the table.

“You ok?” Steve asks, bringing Bucky his tea.  “You’re quiet.”

“I’m tired,” he says truthfully.

“Big cargo day?”  Steve takes a seat.  “They should pay you extra for that, you know.”

“Hm.”  If he doesn’t say yes, it’s not a lie.

“Well, you should eat,” Steve prattles on.  “We still have chicken.  And potatoes.”

“Actually, I’m gonna have a shower first,” Bucky says, draining his mug and getting to his feet.  His breath hitches on every inhale.  It’s only a matter of time before the mucous begins to clog his windpipe again.  

“You really are tired, huh?”  Steve offers a sympathetic smile.  “I’m sorry they’re working you so hard.”

“’S alright,” Bucky says.  He swallows quickly.  He’s not going to cough.

“I’ll make you a plate for when you’re done.  How’s that sound?”

“Good,” Bucky says vaguely.  

He heads to the bathroom as quickly as he can without running, then turns on the water in the tub.  He braces himself over the sink and gives in to the painful itch in his lungs.  He hacks a few times and spits the dregs into the basin.  He tries to draw in a breath of the warm, humid air, but it only spurs on another coughing fit.

Bucky’s shaking a little by the time he’s done, and he’s wasted several minutes’ worth of hot water.  He strips quickly and jumps under the spray just as it begins to turn cold.  

He washes as quickly as he can, but his teeth start to chatter before he rinses the soap from his hair.  He roughs up the short strands with his fingers, trying to quicken up the process and move as much as he can to keep warm.  

The air in the bathroom is equally frigid when Bucky steps out of the tub, and his threadbare towel provides little warmth.  He pulls it tightly around his shoulders and buries his face in it, willing himself to finish drying off and make the mad dash across to the bedroom to get something to wear.  

An enormous cough bursts from Bucky’s lips before he can prepare for it, sending spit and shower water spraying across the tiny bathroom.  He reaches for the wall to maintain his balance, but his head swims and his lungs burn and his body’s already preparing for round two.

“Bucky?”  Steve knocks on the door.

“I’m fi—”  Bucky hacks again, and gags on the thick fluid lining his throat.

“I’m coming in.”  

Bucky mentally curses the door’s faulty lock.  He tries to push Steve away, but the next cough-turned-heave makes Bucky’s vision go fuzzy, and he’s grateful for the small hands lowering him to his knees.  

“Keep your head up, ok?” Steve says, thumping Bucky on the back.  “Breathe.”

Bucky tries, but he keeps hacking.  Bile rises in his throat, and Steve pushes him over the toilet as he vomits.  Bucky’s breath rattles audibly as the retches trail off.

“Ok,” Steve soothes him, stroking Bucky’s hair.  “You’re ok.  More than just a little tired, though.”

“No,” Bucky chokes.

“Naw, I know pneumonia when I hear it,” Steve says sympathetically.  “You need rest.  And more tea.”

Bucky knows better than to argue, but he would anyway if he wasn’t still panting.  He fumbles for his towel to wipe his mouth and dab at the clammy sweat dotting his brow.  “We can’t afford this,” he whispers.

“We’ll get by.”  Steve helps Bucky to his feet.  “What we really can’t afford is you dying on me.”

Bucky laughs until he starts to cough again.  “You better keep your mouth shut, then,” he says with a grin.

“I can only try my best.”  Steve smiles back.


End file.
